Page 49 of Puck, Marry, Kill

“Who cares? What’re you doing here? Do we have practice?” In his excitement, the words rush out as one long, run-on sentence.

“No, Dominic helped me at the zoo today, so I promised him dinner as a thank-you,” Briar explains.

“Pizza?” he asks, peering at Briar hopefully.

Instead of answering, she gives him one of the head-tilty mom looks that silently saysabsolutely not and you know better than to ask so why did you. I can’t help but grin.

“I was thinking spaghetti and meatball tacos,” Briar tells Harley.

Obviously, I know what spaghetti and meatballs are. I know what tacos are too. But the word combination Briar just said does not make sense in the slightest. “Huh?”

Harley has all but forgotten his pizza idea as he rushes to explain that Briar’s going to put noodles and meatballs inside a French bread shell that they eat like a taco, hence spaghetti and meatball tacos.

“That sounds ... interesting?” I say, not sure if it’s extra efficient or extra messy, but figuring I’ll find out.

In the end, it’s actually both in equal measure.

Harley has sauce spread across his face in an approximation of the Joker’s smile, and I’d bet there’s some up his nose too. I had a meatball fall into my lap, leaving a red smear on my pants that Briar had automatically tried to wipe up, but then she’d squeaked in embarrassment when she realized just how close to my meatballs she was. And now, Briar is grinning at us both like we’re ridiculous. But dinner is delicious. I’m more carbed up than I’d typically be prior to a game, but it’s all good.

“Shower time,” she tells Harley, motioning to her face in a reminder that he needs to do an extra thorough cleaning. “It’s a school night.”

Harley starts to leave the kitchen, but pauses to look back at me uncertainly. “You’ll be here when I get out, right?”

Nodding, I assure him easily. “Of course.”

I’m still staring at the doorway where he left when Briar says, “It’s good for him to see that.” I turn my attention to her, my brows lifted. She licks her lips before hesitantly explaining, “Tyler always says he’ll do something and then doesn’t. I know how much that hurts, so I make sure to always keep my promises to him. No matter how big or small. You saying you’ll be here and then actually staying might seem like no big deal, but it’s important to Harley.”

It’s important to Briar, too, but she doesn’t say that. She doesn’t have to. I can see it on her face, can feel it in the set of her shoulders.

“I’m not going anywhere, unless you tell me to. And even then”—I put a doubtful look on my face—“I’m a bit harder to get rid of than that. My family calls me persistent. Pretty sure it’s pure pigheadedness, though.” I say it as though it’s the compliment that I consider it to be. My refusal to be put off easily is what made me the athlete I am, and also, what’s made me the man I am.

I get up from the table, taking my plate and grabbing hers and Harley’s too. I dump the bread end that Harley left into the trash and then start rinsing the dishes for the dishwasher.

“What are you doing?”

I glance over my shoulder, realizing that Briar has stood up from the table and is staring at me like I’m an alien. “Washing the dishes?” I say, confused by her confusion.

“Why?”

I blink, looking around for some context clues about why she’s asking why I’m doing dishes when they obviously need to be done. “Because we ate on them?” I say hesitantly.

“You’re just doing the dishes,” she replies, making it sound like I’m doing something remarkable.

“Yeah, you cooked, I’m cleaning up. It’s the least I can do.”

My words register in my own head as I say them and I realize why she’s reacting so oddly. She does everything. She does it all on her own, and she always has. I’d bet that even when she was married, Tyler never lifted a finger.

Giving her a pointed look, I say plainly, “This is literally the bare minimum.” The reminder of our previous conversation is clear. “This isn’t special and I don’t need you to mother me. Save that for Harley. I cook for myself, clean my own place, and am an entirely functional adult.” I chuckle as I say it, surprised those are actual points in my favor.

“You have no idea how attractive that is,” she admits, letting out a tiny laugh as she props her chin on her hand and stares at me in awe.

“You can say it ... you think I’m sexy,” I tease, shooting her an exaggerated wink. To prove my point, I dramatically scrub the plate in my hand, makingoohandaahfaces to make it seem downright sexual. She laughs at my antics, but that adorable pink rushes to her cheeks.

As she gets up, bringing our glasses to the sink, I tell her, “I also remember birthdays, will buy you flowers, and open every door for you. Though that’s not because I’m nice, it’s because I want to see your ass as often as possible.” I grin wolfishly as I lean back from the sink to peer at said curves. “Who knew those damn khaki shorts would do it for me. Give me a spin.”

She laughs nervously, but with her eyes locked on me, she does a slow turn, giving me a better view. I groan in appreciation. “Fuck, Briar.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, pushing on my arm. Her touch sears me, and I want to kill the asshole who ever made her doubt her beauty, her sexiness, her spirit, her amazingness. She thinks I’m kidding, and maybe cargo shorts wouldn’t be hot on anyone else, but on Briar, anything she wears, anything she does, everything she says, it’s all catnip to me. And I’m addicted.